Destroyed
by Marisa Hiyama
Summary: England can't shake off the Feeling... The thing he loves so much it hurts. Human names used, but only by the countries. Includes a flashback you might remember from the anime. FrUK with a twist. Includes kissing and description of traumatic experiences. You have been warned. (Don't like, don't read :))
1. Chapter 1: A Bad or Good Day?

England had always had a problem with France. Ever since he laid eyes upon him, he knew instantly that he wasn't to be interacted with. He loathed everything about him: the girly hair he flicked and played with every ten seconds, the way he strutted down the road in the most flashy and showy way possible, swinging his hips obviously to attract female attention, his absurd, completely inappropriate habit of drinking excessively and lifting girls' skirts up and pulling boys' trousers down… He could go on ranting for years. To prove that, I'll inform you that England had managed exactly that for, well, the whole of his life. As a country, the day of his birth was quite a while back. Most would categorise his feelings towards the French nation as mere jealousy, but there was definitely something else mixed in. Only England could identify what the said emotion was, but even so, it was a vague, wild guess. Much to the Englishman's annoyance, a surprising number of other nations sought after the true meaning of his hatred towards the slightly older man, the vast majority asking questions along the lines of: "Is it because he's handsomer than you?". Of course, he uttered the negative. This lead to nothing, as the reason behind his disliking had yet to be discovered.

"Ugh," the blond, thick-eyebrowed nation sighed, flinging the scratched green front door open then flopping into his brown leather armchair, taking in the smells of old vacuum cleaner, mint, coffee and tea of home. Mostly tea. Lazily reaching for the television remote, he allowed his thoughts to wander to his magical friends that everyone (besides Norway) called him insane for conversing with. Once in a blue moon, the (slightly antisocial) man would wish a 'magical sight' spell existed, so he could prove Flying Mint Bunny and friends were real, and not just in his now puzzled head. "Why do I have the feeling of someone watching me? Gah, whatever. I'm just being a git because I'm tired."

England's drowsy ramblings were somewhat rudely smashed by the doorbell. Why the theme was 'God Save the Queen', he had "no bloody clue". He cursed and carelessly dropped the remote on to the wooden floor with a loud _CLACK_. There, the song again. And again. And again.

"Stop it, you [insert extremely insulting British swear word here]! I'm coming, I'm coming! Give…" _STAMP_. "…me…" _RATTLE_. "… time!"

Sharp, furious emerald interlocked with soft, calm sapphire as two male nations' gazes met. England backed away swiftly in shock and attempted to slam the door in the other's joyful face, but, however, he managed to prevent that happening with his recently-polished, heeled boot. Flustered, the younger turned a shade of red that would have appealed greatly to a certain Spaniard.

"Ah_, bonjour, Angleterre_!" chirped the subject of confusion himself. He pushed the door inwards to reveal a perhaps frightened island nation then proceeded to chuckle to himself as he spotted the intense scarlet brushed across his pale face. "Why the _rouge_-ness_, mon ami_?"

England adjusted his posture and awkwardly brushed off a scattering of non-existent dirt from his jeans, briskly turning his head to the side in order to hide the fading magenta from the grinning Frenchman. "I-It's just that you surprised me, nothing more, nothing less! A-And don't speak to me in French! It freaks me out a-"

"Fine… Arthur. I'll use your boring language that isn't even_ close_ to being as sexy as mine," France interrupted, starting to laugh his trademark laugh. England cringed.

"Whatever, Francis. Now you still haven't told me what the bloody hell you're doing here, so either tell or scram."

"But _Angl_- I mean, _Arthur_, I thought you knew!" the ultramarine-eyed nation began, somewhat shocked. "It's a special day!"

England paused for a second. A special day? Christmas had been and gone months ago, and besides, it would have been almost impossible for him not to notice the decorations and carols and Finland getting over-excited. "What do you mean? Spit it out, I'm tired!"

France allowed yet another wide smile cross his lips. "How adorable! _Monsieur_ Black Sheep of Europe can't even remember the date of his own Birthday!"

Awkward silence. Then out of the blue, _SLAP_!

"Wha-What was that for, _Angl_- Arthur?!" the Frenchman cried, hurt and taken-aback.

"G-GIT!" the other yelled as he slammed the door successfully this time.

He shoved his trembling body against the wooden entrance, oxygen struggling to find its way into his quivering oesophagus, shaken, drum-like heart desperately pounding and beating his ribcage for escape. He breathed heavily with his lungs and chest going in and out, inflating and deflating, in frighteningly quick succession. No one had come to visit him on his Birthday for decades... and no one had been as friendly as France towards him, _EVER_. Yet he still hated him. That was the problem.

_I need to do something about this feeling; it's making my insides go all hot and it's starting to become embarrassing,_ England thought while clutching at his waist to stop the raging fire in his stomach. Unexpectedly, two gentle knocks caused him to jump. As soon as it came, it was gone. Miraculously, he was fine now.

"Whatever I did, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Arthur," the familiar thick French accent sounded out from behind the oak of the door.

_Wait, did France just… apologise?! This day can't get any more peculiar, touch wood!_

"Alright, frog, what's your problem? Can't you just leave me alone like everyone else? Why does it have to be you that constantly stalks me, damn it!" the Englishman shouted in bewilderment, embarrassment and anger, gradually gaining his bearings and returning to his rather bipolar and sarcastic self. The three emotions mixed like an amateur magician's potion: they were otherwise useful ingredients that weren't compatible, randomly thrown into the liquid to create a monstrosity of a concoction. And England knew all about magic and potions.

The green-eyed, untidy-haired nation heard a solitary foot slip in the dewy grass outside. He didn't bother tell him not to step on it, he just wanted dearly to uncover the secret of France's kindness and hope that would stop the Feeling from eating away at his innards.

"I don't have a problem. It's just one of those things, _oui_? Am I not allowed to be friendly with you now, eh, _mon cher_?" he sniggered patronisingly, talking in a characteristically flirtatious manner, pushing the door to. England submitted with a disapproving grimace and a high level of reluctance, letting the door's force drive him aside, shoes sliding slowly on the floor panels, towards the wall opposite.

"Why are you being so nice to me, Francis?" he sighed, ignoring the fact that he had just called him 'my darling' in his own language that, according to England, was NOT 'sexy' AT ALL. That's NOT AT ALL in capitals. "Everyone's supposed to hate me! Especially Europeans like yourself."

The curious, flaxen-haired man didn't challenge his so-called 'friend' when he clearly stated that he wasn't actually in Europe. Instead, however, he merely answered his previous question politely and friendlily (a rarity!): "_Je suis gentil de tu parce que tu est mon ami_, Arthur. I'm nice to you because you're my friend. I know I tease you, insult you, and... _touch_ you, but I'll always be your ally. So _Joyeux Anniversaire_."

With that, he stepped forward and pressed his lips against the unsuspecting English nation's, wrapping his arms around his warm body in a bone-crushing embrace. Utterly astonished, confused and caught off guard, the other screamed in a rather unmanly fashion as he was tugged back and slammed against the nearest wall unceremoniously by the collar of his virtually spotless shirt. He tried to yank the other's beloved hair out but failed, as his arms were pinned to his sides in a strangely gentle but purposeful manner. England couldn't bear it any longer, but even so, he was enjoying it for some unknown reason.

_Why are you just letting him do this to you?!_ _You don't even like him!_ the angel hovering above his right shoulder shrieked, chin in hands. _It's been going on for at least 10 minutes now!_

_You like it! I know you do! Go with the flow, as Alfred says! It's obvious what you want, so why not treat yourself? It's not as if you're ever going to get a chance like this again, Arthur… _the mischievous devil on the left giggled naughtily_._

_What shall I do?! _the actual England thought in utter desperation with wide, verdant eyes flicking back and forth between the two opposing ethereal creatures arguing and persuading like always. He had to go with one of them, and that one was…

As soon as France 'got the hang of things', so to speak, there was yet another _SLAP_!

The newly hurt visitor merely stood there with his head facing the direction in which England's hand whacked him determinedly, mouth forming a small 'O' in astonishment. That dreaded awkward silence.

"… G-Get out."

More silence.

"I said GET OUT! S-Stay away from me, you b*st*rd!"

"But Arthur, I-"

"Shut up and get the hell out of here!" England hollered, shoving him roughly through the entrance with France attempting desperately to grasp onto the doorframe in vain. He felt the hard wood slam into his back and propel him away from the door, causing him to perform an unlucky face-plant on the concrete path. It hurt.

England seized this chance to try to calm down and clear his mind of all thoughts even remotely related to the Frenchman, who happened to be clutching his face in pain and despair outside. No one had ever kissed England before. Ah, no one had ever _hugged_ him at the most before. He staggered, both dumbfounded and exhausted, upstairs and collapsed in a baffled heap onto his bed, practically tearing out his unruly, golden hair. He wailed, "WHY?!" repetitively before crying himself to sleep: a deep, strongly troubled sleep.


	2. Chapter 2: On the Edge of Déjà Vu

England awakened, with something inside his head resembling a hangover. A furious, burning hangover. He groaned loudly, rubbing his eyes, reaching lackadaisically across to where his bedside table (furnished with the very same British oak as the violent door, I'll have you know) sat, beside the chest of drawers. The skin of weary fingers brushed against something other than wood.

"Bed sheets...?" The worn-out Englishman, who hadn't received close to enough sleep, yawned, wearily opening one eye. "Bloody hell!" he exclaimed as the realisation of him lying sprawled across the floor whacked him in the face as hard as he had done, France.

_I must've had a rough night; I'm also in my day clothes_, he thought whilst picking himself up drearily. Following arranging the sheets with a slightly perplexed frown, England trudged downstairs, not batting an eyelid at failing to miss out the squeaky step. The norm. It was only when he heard three eerie knocks on the door when he broke out of the routine running on the 'auto-pilot' setting of his wandering brain. He stopped in his tracks, greatly annoyed. Again, he swore badly and questioned the name of the irritating person behind the door. When the quiet answer reached his ears, the disbelieving squeak of a cry could be heard from half way across the street. England dropped the pillow he had absent-mindedly obtained. _It can't be. Surely not. My dream... It...No way, that's not possible! It can't be true! Why would he do something like that though? I need answers, fast!_

The terror-stricken island nation carelessly and inaccurately kicked the unfortunate feather-filled item behind him and half way across the room, then tried to casually perfect his newly-creased clothes. He didn't prevail, only stood quaking in the hallway. He boldly turned on his heel to face the door that mocked him_, laughed at_ him so mercilessly, the door he had held affection for in the past.

_Here goes nothing._

England threw open the apparently evil chunk of wood (as idiotic as it seems) to reveal a certain Frenchman, drenched from usually 'immaculate, voluminous' hair to shiny, lace-up boots, panting and breathing heavily. He had patiently waited outside his house for the _whole_ night. Through the dark, dangerous, rain-filled night. The man horribly familiar to England lifted his head slowly with a grateful expression plastered across his face, beautiful blue eyes taking in the whole of the other's figure, kind gaze finally resting on his hair.

"Eh, Arthur, your _cheveux_ is quite, let's see, messed up?" he smirked while England reddened once again at the talk of personal matters. His hair. The Englishman had always admired and envied France's hair, even going as far as to grow it, style it to look like his, and request him to cut it to a complete spitting image. Jealousy stole one quarter of the whole Feeling, that was for sure. The remaining three, however…

"You want to kill me, don't you?"

"_Pardon_?!"

"You're so nice to me because you want to get close to me, and kill me when my guard is down."

With that, England sprinted into the kitchen and returned bearing a frighteningly large bread knife that shimmered in the morning's gold with a sinister air. He watched, ironically fearful, as France's eyes widened like a rabbit's in headlights at the sight of the weapon and backed away slowly, showing the palms of his hands as a sign of peace. Suddenly, he smiled, as if to say, "It's alright, and I'm not scared".

"Arthur… No matter how you see me, I'll always be there for you. Until the end of time. Even though you find me infuriating, I'd like for you to know that I think of you as an angel," France whispered softly, embracing the knife-wielding nation. "England means 'Land of Angels', after all."

At this, England burst into a fit of uncontrollable and unexplainable tears. He dropped the weapon and returned the gesture with emotion and no hesitation, feeling the other's warmth despite the rain's freeze. France chuckled again, gazing happily and dreamily into the Englishman's watery eyes, and raised England's chin to his level via lifting it with his hand gently. He didn't pull away or protest this time; the French nation was in fact joyful because of the abundance of reaction from the younger. _England_ was the one to push his lips against his, tightening his loving grip on France as if to prevent him from leaving him alone once more. There had been so many occasions where England had left him stranded on the battlefield and in day-to-day life… It was surprising France didn't have monophobia. He adored England, and that was the only definite thing within this ordeal.

Finally, the two nations' mouths parted and they looked intently at each other with interest and contentment for the first time. But there was still something wrong with England.

_I now know which emotions make up the Feeling: jealousy and love, so why is my stomach still hurting?_

It happened in a blink of a vibrant, emerald eye. The transition from neutral to cold, sick and pale passed like the flick of a switch… The switch that France flicked unknowingly, and by accident. He clutched his midriff in utter pain and crouched on the floor, the horrible, agonising, all-too-real throbbing sensation kicking in, causing him to double over. Attempting to keep his cool and not have a seizure, he let his hands scale the wall that lay to the left and picked himself up for the second time, using the wall to his advantage while steadying himself like this. He coughed up liquid the colour of the Frenchman's favourite flower; he thought he would vomit. France panicked, concerned for the other's wellbeing, running around in desperation and confusion in search for a medical book of help. He didn't want to give up, yet he could only watch as the fingers of England's mind slipped and lost the hand of consciousness, vision fading to deadly black. It was like France was killing him without intention.


	3. Chapter 3: Memories of the Past

For a second time, England awoke in a state that didn't fall into the 'normal' category. White walls, white ceiling, white floor (what colour were the stairs? Just kidding). He knew that most of the walls in France's house were white. Uh oh. He sat up hurriedly, only to find he was in a hospital room, which was still a relief on a level I couldn't begin to describe. He was clad in pale blue and, of course, white, with curious yet sinister tubes protruding like tentacles from both his wrists and an oxygen mask that was carefully fitted to his face. On a chair the same colour as the room, taking notes with a barely-worn notepad and pen, sat Switzerland, dressed in the uniform of a doctor. His gaze shifted to the patient when he heard the rustle of England becoming startled and making a fast movement.

"Herr Kirkland. _Guten Tag_. Do not worry, you are in hospital now; we will look after you and everything will be alright. I'll give you a couple of minutes to recuperate then I will tell you what happened, if you have disremembered," he said emotionlessly with a stoic face as he raised himself from the chair, lay down the notepad and pen, and strode over to his bedside. "I allowed Herr Bonnefoy to watch over you through the night as he refused to leave your side. I am very sorry if that decision seems unsatisfactory to you."

England's stomach performed a somersault. His heart skipped a beat. That name.

He had completely forgotten to search the _whole_ room with his eyes. To his right, France stood in silence bearing a friendly yet concerned smile. England turned scarlet again upon realising that his hand was resting on his. After the burning in his cheeks subsided, he managed a small, nervous laugh that came out as a peculiar, drunken-sounding, pathetic giggle. The two nations stared lovingly into each other's visages (a word England stole from France's language that he 'loathed'), watching the sparks of adoration hidden beneath their deep, swirling pools of pain and bloodshed that were their eyes. But, however, the 'peaceful' and boring Swiss doctor interrupted without a hint of apologetic tone in his voice with: "Sorry to interrupt, but can I get on with explaining please?"

Both of the non-neutral men, in terms of warfare, exchanged glances with "That was rude!" written all over them.

"Errrm… Y-Yeah, you can tell me," England whispered, still in shock, while frowning faintly at the immaculate, clear mask that caused his breathing to sound somehow robotic and heavy.

"What do you remember of the incident?"

"A-Ah, well-"

"Is it personal?"

"Somewhat… But I can remember everything quite clearly up until I felt something flip in my stomach and I collapsed. I tried to stop it but I just passed out. I'd be grateful if you could t-"

"_Ja_, Herr Bonnefoy here called the ambulance, you were taken to the hospital and we have done some tests and such. We are not sure what is wrong with you."

_I don't think he meant to word it like that, but putting that aside, what does he mean, they are "not sure" what's wrong?_

"I am afraid to say that we have never come across a situation like yours before. Ever. Nevertheless, we have found your symptoms to bear a likeness to those of a… an extremely rare form of a cardiac arrest, or heart attack. It looks serious… I… I have bad news. We… do not know how long you have to live. I am sorry. I am so very sorry."

Everything froze. Eyes widened. Tears flowed. Bodies quivered. Break down. Error. Malfunction. But life is not a game: it's real. So real. If you die, you don't get back up or revive, it's just black. The kind of black you can feel. The deadly black that England felt. The Feeling.

"No… Why…? Why is it always me…? Why is it always me who lives at the end of the difficult path? WHY?! You know what, scr*w my goddamned life! I hate it! Let me go to hell!" England spat, ripping off the tubes and oxygen mask then jumping up onto the cool, tiled floor. The two other men protested in vain whilst reaching out to block the exit. France barred his way as Switzerland pushed a button on a walkie-talkie and spoke calmly and professionally through the speaker.

"Arthur, I-" began France, sadly yet urgently.

"Get out of my way, damn you!" England shouted angrily, attempting to shove him aside. The French nation kept his balance; he remained upright, as he desired to protect England for eternity. It was his fate, his destiny, and everyone knows that fate and destiny aren't to be tampered with. That will lead to consequences filled with strife, angst, blood and pain.

England had interfered with his fate and destiny long ago.

"I said move! Now! Or I'll kill you like I've wanted to since I first set eyes on you!"

"I still love you, and I always will. Please, Arthur, accept that. Please_. Pour moi_."

The confused Englishman reluctantly slackened his grip on the other's shirt and proceeded to bury his head in his chest. France breathed a sigh of relief as he wrapped his arms around him gently and glanced briefly at the doctor. He said all was well and almost draped England over the bed. And, relax. The non-emotional Swiss man then said over the communication device that there was no need for backup, as England had returned to placidness. He walked over to attach the vital mask and tubes to the island nation's face. Even so, he was still on his guard.

_I can't seem to match these symptoms with anything…! Mood swings and fainting are things we see regularly! Surely we have dealt with something like this before. Surely… However, there is the possibility of this being an illness that no one has discovered yet. That will be the case, and Herr Kirkland shall leave the hospital in one piece. That is my duty: to help people, even if they threaten to kill._

The pathetic, limp nation in blue and white froze suddenly and his heart stopped thumping against his chest for a second. The sign of the Feeling rising again. He squirmed and screamed, "NO!" repeatedly, trying desperately but hopelessly to ward off his enemy, which earned him greatly frightened and concerned looks from the two (other) Europeans. The Germanic raced over to a sophisticated-looking machine that measured one's heart rate; its normally mainly black screen appeared terrifyingly _white_, with dark tendrils flickering across like a child flicking the paint-soaked bristles of a toothbrush across paper.

"I need backup! This is a legitimate emergency! I want two soldi- _nurses _down here A.S.A.P!" the now slightly panicky Switzerland said into the walkie-talkie he hadn't put away just in case, considerably louder than usual. "I have a patient with a heart rate of 250 B.P.M here!"

France was utterly horrified. England was his future. And nations can't just die like that… can they? Tears started to gather in his eyes as he thought of what life would be like without his beloved _Angleterre_. He would be lonely, isolated and heartbroken. First the droplets, next the springs, next the streams, next the waterfalls. There he stood, crying into his hands while the Swiss man sweated out of concentration onto his gadgets and appliances. He couldn't face that dreaded sickening, sinking feeling of loss again – the feeling of losing someone you hold dear and call precious.

June 11, 1429

"_What? You need a _girl _to lead you?! How depressing! You _must_ be desperate!" the armour-clad England smirked as the rows upon seemingly endless rows of soldiers behind him laughed without a thought for the enemy facing them. "What am I saying? Why wouldn't you be desperate after all our crushing, humiliating defeats?_

_The enemy, France, glared as sharp as daggers at his gleeful face. "This girl is a courageous leader! She's a better _man _than you'll ever be!"_

"_Oooh…!" the French military chortled at the witty retort as England's stare pierced their leader's eyes._

"_I'll lead this army to victory with God on our side," a soft voice that brushed the ears tenderly like silk echoed across the battlefield, a ghost of purity. "Now… Courage! Do not fall back!"_

May 30, 1431

_He sprinted as fast as he could manage when he heard the news. The infinite whispers of varying moods of the townspeople were the truth, not just random gossip and rumours like outsiders thought. He tripped and stumbled over mud-caked rocks and near-dead plants and vaulted clumsily over a fence with a clatter, mind racing frantically like his legs to calculate what was actually happening. He had never thought for the most minute fraction of a second that something like this would occur. It was a nightmare… A nightmare reality._

_France dug his sharp heels into the damp ground in order to grind to a sudden halt. He stared in disbelief, confusion and terror at a black-cloaked figure tying an angelic, calm teenage girl to a tall post with thick, fraying rope._

"Non_! Why are you doing this?!" he cried over the townspeople's voices of mixed emotion, tears streaming down his face as if he had never wept before._

"_You have been deceived by this witch!" England shouted back, tightening the reinforced knot at the back of the post. The girl reacted with merely a soft sigh that sounded like one of relief. Slowly, she opened her eyes that widened with both sadness and joy as her gaze rested on France._

_She did not cry._

"_You can't do this! You can't! She has committed no more sin than you have, you monster!" the Frenchman yelled in fury. He struggled desperately as several English guards restrained him, preventing him from running up to, and tackling England, who was now reaching into his deep, cloak pocket. Two sticks…_

_The angelic voice of the young female rang out, "Please, _mon cher_… Let it be…"_

_Everyone stared._

"_If God has chosen this path for me, I shall venture down it. If God says I am to die here, I shall accept His words."_

"_This can't be happening! Stop this! Save her!"_

_The fire was lit._

"… _Someone… Please…"_

_Smoke danced._

"_I love you, Jeanne! I love you very, very much!"_

"_I love you too, Francis… I love you so much…! Perhaps we shall meet again in another life."_

_The sky became a black darker than black itself. A crucifix was quickly brought from the church and held above the flames in front of the silhouette._

"_You will forever be in my heart-" she said sorrowfully yet happily whilst clutching another crucifix to her chest, then stopped to inhale and cough. "My Voices were from God. They have not deceived me! … And, my dear Francis, I shall… love… you… forever…"_

"_Jeanne…? Jeanne! Please! Jeanne!" France wailed, remembering how he had cared for her, tended to her wounds, loved her with all his heart, and now, England had done this: a heinous sin that calls for a fate worse than death._

_As the crowd began to depart to continue with daily chores and tasks, France heard a faint shimmer of sound. He recognised her voice._

"_Jesus… Jesus… Jesus… Jesus… Jesus… Jesus… Jesus… Jesus…"_

"_We are lost; we have burned a Saint," a guard said, solemnly._

_Then there was silence and darkness._


	4. Trauma, Trauma and More Trauma

The atmosphere was frantic and brimming with tension and urgency as the squirming England attempted desperately to fight off the evil welling up inside of him, beating a tattoo onto his insides. Switzerland rushed around from machine to machine. France tried to retain his composure. All of a sudden, two nurses burst in through the doors with serious faces… but deep in the heart of their soul lay fear. Only one of them was a country, France knew straight away. The petite female nation was a spitting image of the main doctor, but her hair was adorned with a shimmering blue ribbon.

"Big_ Bruder! _I am desperate to help! What will my job be?" Liechtenstein cried in both panic and determination, large green, sparkling orbs glowing, revealing her emotions perfectly.

"Check the machines and tell me if he shows any sign of recovery or his condition worsens," replied her brother, seemingly absent-mindedly, engrossed in his profession. He practically threw himself over to the Englishman's bedside to activate the 'emergency life' setting on the device closest to the patient. He mutters to himself, "Everything will go as predicted" repeatedly, as an act of comforting himself. He wasn't one to worry anyway.

England's eyes shot open at the least expected moment and he coughed loudly, gasping for air once again, as Liechtenstein called, in Swiss German: "His heart rate is returning to normal, big _Bruder! _Very quickly, in fact! Come and see, come and see!"

'Extreme relief' would be an understatement. A truly gigantic understatement.

"Oh, _mon cher!_" France cried, throwing his arms around his 'frenemy'… Or was he more than just a friend? "I knew you'd be alright!" he lied.

The island nation embraced and kissed him feebly on the forehead before gripping his hand and moving on to his lips. "It's so scary… The thought of… The thought of de-"

"Don't say it," France whispered tenderly whilst stroking England's hair in a state of contentment. "I won't allow you to say such things."

Liechtenstein and the anonymous human nurse (who, frankly, didn't contribute much) exchanged glad, content glances and smiled at the hugging couple – the couple that couldn't possibly work, yet it worked so well. Still alert was Switzerland, constantly refusing to let his mind rest. The truth was that he had a fear of failure; his experience of being in the army had scarred him for life. He had witnessed close friends die, and every day he vomited at the memories and was the one clutching at his stomach in agony. That is why he never smiles.

Not anymore.

"Herr Bonnefoy, Herr Kirkland. We will have to perform more tests in a while. But one thing is for certain (I have just calculated it): Herr Kirkland will survive-"

England winced at the doctor's choice of language.

"-for just over a year."

Another one of Death's favoured silences was draped over the room, but England had predicted this situation and merely smiled whimsically, staring into interesting nothingness. The French nation prepared to sob but stopped when he saw the serene and peculiarly calmexpression on the Englishman's face. Quizzical, he asked how he was, England's reaction being "If I only have a year to live… I want to make the most of it. With you, my dear Francis. With you. Because I have realised that I, even after all the years of conflict between us, have loved you ever since I set eyes upon you".

France's eyes became teary again as he listened to those words of legitimate adoration and heartfelt emotion: legitimacy. Beautiful legitimacy.

"And I mean it. Those are my true feelings, and I am not going to repeat them!" England blushed, his mind obviously returning to its normal state. "So feel obliged!"

"Of course I feel obliged," France whispered in a low, seductive tone, gently kissing the back of the slightly flustered island nation's hand. "I know what you're like!"

Then a most uncommon occurrence happened. England laughed. He laughed like he had never laughed before, as if all those years of lying with "I am perfectly fine, thank you" had caused a blockage in the part of his lungs from where the laughter came. Who knows… Maybe it had?

"Herr Kirkland, I predict that you will be well enough to leave hospital in approximately a week. You seem to be getting better," Switzerland said, swallowing the sick in his mouth. It brought reluctant memories flooding back of when his human friend passed away from cancer with his wife by his bedside, murmuring "I love you" over and over until the silence swept over the room.

Was this jealousy?

"What on earth do you mean? I'm still dying here, I'll have you know! Getting better my ar-"

"_Ja, ja, ja, _you are getting better!" the doctor swiftly cut the Englishman off, mainly for the sake of his sister's innocence. "If my predictions are correct, which they usually are."

"Well, isn't someone modest!" boomed a voice from behind the door.

**A/N: Sorry this is so short, boring, fluffy and badly written, mes amis/amies. I was tired :(**


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